


Custard Creams

by maxcellwire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Comedy, M/M, also scotland isnt really in it that much sorry, england in tonnes of jumpers, sort of current affairs but not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:43:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2607200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxcellwire/pseuds/maxcellwire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which England pouts over the Strictly results and writes his will on a tissue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Custard Creams

**Author's Note:**

> My NaNoWriMo project is really intense and depressing at the moment so the way to combat that is to write something light-hearted and let myself get thousands of words behind!!!! This is entirely pointless but I had fun writing it so whatever.  
> Also I rated it as general bc nothing /that/ romantic goes on but there's a bit of strong language and I just don't know it's late and I'm confused

England curled up on the sofa and pulled two blankets over his body, wriggling his toes, which were bound in three pairs of thermal socks, to get them covered. He had a hot cup of tea in one hand and the telly remote in the other, and as he leant back into the sofa cushions he could almost forget the stress his body was under. Until he sneezed, that was, and some of the tea sloshed over the rim of the cup and onto his hands. He hissed in pain, placing the tea on the side and sucking at his skin as though that would actually do any good, before pulling his jumper sleeves down over his hands. He automatically moved to change the channel to BBC1, where the end credits of Countryfile were slowly scrolling up the screen.

This was going to be the perfect evening. He had a plate of custard creams and a box of aloe vera infused Kleenex on the table. His cushions were perfectly plumped up, Strictly was about to start and it was a Sunday evening, which meant that everybody would be at their own homes and wouldn’t bother him. Even those ridiculous politicians and greedy wankers - sorry, _bankers_ \- he’d had to endure for hours that day wouldn’t dare to bother him now – and why would they need to? They’d probably be watching Strictly themselves, if they knew what was good for them.

Yes, England might have been sneezing germs onto everything he owned, but he was wonderfully, delightfully alone, without anybody nagging him to do this or proposing preposterous ideas or teasing him for something he had done 1000 years ago that he’d really rather have forgotten. All was tranquil, just as he liked it, and the sigh he let out was one of utter satisfaction.

And then the doorbell rang.

England groaned and buried himself beneath the blankets, closing his eyes as though that made him invisible. It was difficult pretending he wasn't at home when the light from the telly could be seen through the curtains, but it was worth a shot.

And the bell rang again.

What could honestly be so important that it required two rings of the doorbell on a Sunday night? Did this person have no decency? He would have felt it if something drastic had happened, but his runny nose and aching throat remained constant.

Another ring.

That sealed it. There were only two people in the world who would ring his doorbell three times on any day, let alone a Sunday, and he didn’t want to see either of them. Not now, not this week, not ever, preferably.

The letterbox creaked as somebody pressed their fingers through it, peering into his hallway and no doubt prying at what he found there, because that was the sort of idiot he was acquaintances with.

“Angleterre?” A voice called and England had to bite the blanket to stop himself screaming. France was the last person he had wanted to see. Granted, America would have made much more noise and given him an even bigger headache, but France’s presence was enough to set England’s teeth on edge. “Angleterre, I know you’re home. I can hear the music for that silly dance show of yours.”

 _It’s not a silly dance show_ , England thought, pouting indignantly beneath the blankets and refusing to budge. _Stupid frog_. He could picture the exact way France would roll his eyes at the island nation’s stubborn behaviour and the only thing that could cheer him up was knowing how much it annoyed his neighbour when he was like this.

There was a twist of a key in the lock before the door opened and a blast of cold air rushed in with it. Not for the first time he cursed himself for ever giving the other man the spare key – “For international emergencies,” he had said when France had winked and blown a kiss at him, “Don’t get any ideas.” – and proceeded to make himself as small as possible, despite the discomfort to his already protesting lungs. That way when France walked into the living room he was faced with a mountain of colourful, hand-knitted blankets and a steaming cup of tea. He sighed and pinched a biscuit from the plate, sitting down on England’s feet and waiting for him to complain.

“If you dare get crumbs on my sofa, I will pull your beard from your chin one hair at a time,” England scowled from beneath the blankets, his voice slightly scratchy from the pain in his throat.

“Mon ami, I think you’ll find that very hard with your stubby fingers. And the state of your eyebrows proves that you certainly don’t own a pair of tweezers.” He yelped when England kicked him in the thigh.

“Shut up, I’m listening to the telly.”

“Only an Englishman would listen to the television and not actually watch what is – my, that’s a lovely dress!” England poked his head out from the blankets, angry that France’s attention had been stolen so quickly, and glared in his direction. Although France seemed to be watching the screen, he must have seen the way England's hair was disarrayed and his cheeks flushed from the warmth, as his lips pulled up in the corners. England kicked him again, for good measure.

“Don’t you have something better to be doing than bothering me on what was a pleasant Sunday evening? Molesting unsuspecting members of the public or frying screaming snails or whatever it is you French enjoy doing with your time? Or have you too much free time now that you don’t do any work? It’s a miracle your country hasn’t fallen to bits considering how you’re always over here in my house rather than your own. Stupid,” his voice trailed off as he felt a sneeze coming on, cursing his body’s timing, and he managed to reach up just in time to retain some of his dignity, “frog.”

France merely laughed, saying, “You’re not nearly as annoying when you’re sick, Angleterre. Your scathing comments lose their sting.” England reached for his tea and glared at France over the rim of the cup. “I trust you’ve had dinner already, so I won’t need to make you something, oui?”

“Yes, I had beef stew, and it was all the better for the lack of your presence.” France made a face.

“Perhaps I’ll need to make you something after all, once you’ve thrown up whatever poison you’ve already pumped into your stomach.”

“Thank you ever so much for your witty comment, France, but I am trying to watch my programme here, so if you would kindly shut up...”

France rolled his eyes but said no more for at least five minutes, instead pilfering another biscuit, folding his arms and watching England cough into his tea. When the entertainment came on, however, and England started hacking into his fist, he asked,

"How's the M25 these days?" England screwed his nose up and his hand unconsciously moved to rub at his chest.

“Congested as ever. One of these days I’m going to get a blood clot and die, I'm sure of it."

“That’s horribly morbid, mon cher,” France drawled, and then he grinned. “You should write a will.”

England snorted, raising a thick eyebrow in the Frenchman’s direction but not seeming too averse to the idea. He reached over to the coffee table, fetching a thick book, a tissue and a pen. England was always within a metre’s reach of a pen, yet France could never find any blank paper in his house. It made no sense, but then England had never made much sense; in the end they’d come to expect this of each other.

Resting the tissue on the back of the book, England began to scribble out some names.

“I think I’ll leave my house to Canada, because I know he’ll take care of it well, and he seems to like it when he comes over for a visit. To America I bequeath my car so he stops begging to borrow it, my brothers can have my money – God knows they’ll need it – and Peter can have the London flat just in case he grows up, which is never going to happen.” He tapped the pen against his lips as he thought and France watched him with a curious smile. “Hmm...I suppose I’ll dish the rest out among my colonies-“

“Former colonies.”

“-since that would only be fair. Oh, and Romano can have what remains of my pirate days, just to terrorise Spain. Norway and Romania are the only ones I trust enough with my spells book, so that’s an obvious choice. To my dear friend Japan, I leave the contents of my library, and I suppose I ought to give Prussia my bass guitar, to complete his one man band project or whatever it is.

“And none for you, France.” England grinned wickedly, sniffling and glancing over at France as he finished off his impromptu will with a flourish. The Frenchman shrugged, however, which England had not been expecting.

“That’s okay, mon amour, I’ll just have your body.” The look England gave him was priceless.

“T-that’s disgusting!” His voice cracked as it rose in horror, his cheeks scarlet. “You filthy pervert, I cannot believe I even let you in this house.” France only laughed that ridiculous laugh of his as England pointed accusingly at him and continued, “God only knows what sort of sick fantasies you have. Oh, God, you’ve got a key to my bloody house, give it back right now! Give it b- oh! The results are on at last.”

He removed his hand from where it was busy choking France and returned to his original seat as though nothing had happened, waiting for the results to come in. He held his breath through the tense silence, aware of France holding back laughter beside him but refusing to give in to his teasing. The Strictly results were a vital part of his week and the dramatic background music did nothing to ease the tension in his stomach.

And then the phone rang.

The shrill tone played throughout the room and England nearly screamed, slamming his hand down and pulling it to his ear. Before he could even get out a grumpy, “What do you want?” he heard manic laughter exploding from the receiver and winced. Then he looked at the telly and his face contorted into a picture of horror as he yelled hoarsely,

“Scotland, stop bloody voting for her, you tosser! It’s not funny!”

The effects of his anger were somewhat diminished by the croak in his voice, and Scotland only laughed harder at his response. England slammed the receiver down on the coffee table and glared at it, muttering curses under his breath.

“I hate Scotland, he ruins everything,” England spat, not interested in watching the rest of the program now that the twat had disturbed his evening. Bloody Judy Murray. Bloody Scots. Really, all he had wanted was a nice evening to try and recover from this awful cold, but instead he had France and Scotland pestering him until he could hardly stand it.

“Now, now, mon lapin, that’s no way to speak about your brother. I’m sure he means no harm,” France said, rubbing England’s shoulders in what might have resembled a soothing gesture had it come from anybody other than France.

“No harm, my arse!” Still, England dropped the topic where he would usually have continued swearing into the next day, which France considered something of a success. He removed his hand as England reached for his now cold cup of tea and then cleared his throat.

“I did actually have a reason for coming here tonight, Angleterre,” he began, “although your ridiculous behaviour has distracted me from my task.” He held a finger up to stop the island nation from protesting, and continued, “In light of this week’s events, my boss has asked me to enquire about your plans for next year’s VE Day. Oui, I suppose I could have waited until the meeting tomorrow,” he waved a hand about in the air in a way that England absolutely hated, “but I personally was wondering if you would be free in a few weeks’ time, perhaps on a weekend?”

England blinked, his hands still wrapped around his cup and a blanket falling over his shoulders.

“What?”

“Parlez-vous anglais? I was asking if you are available on any weekends in December. Honestly, Angleterre, for all your scolding of America, you rarely ever listen yourself.”

“I-well, uh, maybe. I’ll have to check my diary but I believe I could take some time off, why?”

“I am hosting a Christmas market in Paris again and I was wondering if you would come. There’ll be wine, if that suits you.”

England _humph_ ed and blew his nose on his will. “I suppose I could take some of my precious time to visit your poncy markets. Isn’t that more Germany’s thing, though?”

“Everybody does Christmas markets these days, even you, Angleterre. Although yours are most often rubbish and lack that glorious European charm you are so oblivious to,” he added. “Besides, would Germany be able to give you a good time like I can? I think non.” He winked at England and twirled his hair around a finger.

“Ha! I think you overestimate your abilities, frog.”

“Believe me, at the end of the weekend you’ll have added me onto that will of yours.”

“Not a chance.”

**Author's Note:**

> Strictly is the dancing competition Strictly Come Dancing. Nobody can be bothered to say the full title.  
> England's sickness is very loosely based off the current issue with five major banks who rigged the foreign exchange and are in lots of trouble. I know almost nothing about this and I don't think it's really classed as a national economic crisis, but I imagine that this and the current cold weather probably left England a little worse for wear.  
> The M25 is the motorway that circles London and it's pretty much always congested. I love the idea of London as his heart too much.  
> Judy Murray is the mother of Andy Murray, the tennis player who's British when he wins and Scottish when he doesn't. She's currently on Strictly and she's totally shit but somehow she's still in? Some people have been accusing the Scots of voting for her for a laugh, which I think is bloody hilarious and I had to write it straight away.  
> I'm sure you guys know what a Christmas market is but if you ever get the chance to go to a European one I strongly recommend it. Having said that, our markets aren't all that bad, so you could always come here hint hint


End file.
